


when the sun sets we're both the same

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 22:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10229432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: Oswald loves his best friend Edward.  Unfortunately, Edward has a girlfriend.Then Ed tries to tell her what he did to her abusive ex-boyfriend.It doesn’t go well.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Когда солнце садится, мы с тобой одинаковы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832024) by [Red_evil_twist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_evil_twist/pseuds/Red_evil_twist)



> Hellooooo,
> 
> So, the chronology doesn’t fit the show. Also I liberally lift lines from the show but tweak them to fit. So if something seems quoted wrong, it’s probably intentional.
> 
> Title from the song “Beautiful Crime” by Tamer.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~R

The house party is lit with colored strobe lights, casting bizarre shadows on the paved sidewalk outside. Shouts and laughter rise above the pounding music, the scent of cheap beer and spirits wafting out on the wind.

Oswald stands, grimly apprehensive, at the end of the walkway up to the house. He lifts one hand to rub across his mouth, nervously. A familiar weight land on his shoulder, and he tilts his head to observe Ed out of the corner of his eye.

Ed looks _delighted_ , excitement and anticipation written in every line of his body: the grin on his face, glasses just slightly askew, and the slightly too-firm grip he has on Oswald’s shoulder. Oswald’s hand rises, of its own volition, to straighten Ed’s glasses, and Ed gives him a startled look. It smoothes out into an appreciative smile as he sees what Oswald is doing. And if Oswald’s fingers linger too long against Ed’s cheekbone, Ed doesn’t seem to notice.

Gripping his shoulder yet more firmly, Ed guides them up the walkway to the front door. Oswald lets him lead; even condescends to allow Ed to give him a hand on the steps. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself by falling.

Just outside the door, Ed pauses and turns abruptly toward him. His eyes are dark and his expression unreadable. Oswald’s nervous heart flutters, caught, in his chest -- the way Ed’s looking down at him, _gazing_ , almost, is too much.

Especially when he _knows_ Ed doesn’t mean it.

Then Ed leans in, face looming in Oswald’s field of vision. Oswald’s eyes are drawn, inexorably, to his lips, heart frantically trying to fly free from his chest -- and Ed brings his lips to Oswald’s ear.

“You cut a fine figure, as always, Oswald,” Ed says quietly. For a brief moment, Oswald _wants_ to hate him, for reading Oswald so easily and thoroughly. But he’s mollified by the quiet sincerity in Ed’s voice. Ed does care for him, in his own way. It’s just not the way Oswald _wishes_ he would. The way Oswald dreams about, late at night, when the moonlight renders them both in stark lines of light and shadow.

Like the time in the woods, when Ed had looked at him with eyes that were black in the moonlight, and had clutched Oswald’s wrist and whispered fervently in his ear--

Ed opens the door.

Oswald feels Ed release his grip on Oswald’s shoulder as they step inside. As the scent of cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke intensifies, they both stand in silence, eyes roving around the party before them.

Most of the people there, Oswald recognizes; the Sirens, of course (this is Barbara’s house -- she throws all the best parties), and Butch, tagging along helplessly after Tabitha. Lee Thompkins is in the living room, looking considerably more sober than anyone else, sweet smile on her face. Even, Oswald sees with a bitter twist, _Jim Gordon_ is here, though Oswald _knows_ the football team has a major game tomorrow and their star player really shouldn’t be out getting drunk at a house party the night before. Not that he has any say on Jim Gordon’s well being. Jim made it _quite_ clear he didn’t want to be friends with Oswald.

Oswald is beginning to regret coming.

But then: Ed turns to look at him with that exhilarating, manic grin, the flashing colored lights creating a kaleidoscope of patterns across his face. Oswald smiles back, helpless in the face of Ed’s delight, and his heart thumps heavily in his chest again as Ed leans in, so that his lips practically brush against Oswald’s ear.

“This is incredible!” Ed exclaims. His hand comes to rest on Oswald’s upper arm, gripping firmly but not painfully. “Come on!”

Oswald allows himself to be swept along by Ed’s enthusiasm, following him as best he can in the crowded room. Ed shortens his stride without appearing to think about it. Oswald smiles to himself. Ed’s casual accommodation of his disability is one of the many reasons he loves Ed.

They don’t belong here, though: no one will look directly at them, let alone speak to them. They’re not _supposed_ to be here.

They’re right; the only reason Oswald had managed to acquire an invitation for the two of them was by helping Tabbs secure the revenue stream for a special little project of hers - the less said about it, the better.

And the only reason he bothered to do that--

He slows down, allowing Ed to dart ahead of him and into the kitchen. Ed greets Jim Gordon gleefully. Oswald can’t hear them from here, but the look of stunned displeasure on Jim’s face is telling. Ed’s cheek lifts, the hint of a smug smile, in response. As Ed reaches into the ice chest to pick up beers, Jim throws a dubious look to Barbara, who’s lounging across the bar counter. Oswald watches on, quietly pleased, as Barbara shrugs and points playfully toward Oswald himself.

Jim’s eyes follow Barbara’s finger and narrow, suspiciously, when he finally sees Oswald. Oswald smirks, despite the irritated little burning sensation in his chest, and gives Jim a jaunty wave. Jim scoffs and mouth something to himself -- the music’s too loud for Oswald to hear.

But Ed freezes, mid-reach. Oswald watches, reluctantly excited, as Ed snarls something venomous, still staring down at the ice chest in front of him - Oswald can read the vitriol in the twist of his lip. Jim’s face closes off in response, quiet anger in his eyes, and as he deliberately sets his own beer bottle down on the counter, Oswald decides he should intervene before things become physical.

He makes his way to the kitchen as hastily as he can manage, and reaches earshot just as Ed’s saying “--it’s _obvious_ , and _pathetic_ , Jimbo, and I think that if you really want people to believe you’re over her you should--”

“Ed!” Oswald calls, before the murderous look on Jim’s face can manifest in violence. Ed shouldn’t be underestimated, but in a purely physical fight in a crowded house surrounded by Jim’s friends -- there’s no question.

Ed whirls back to Oswald, a characteristically flamboyant movement, elbows akimbo. He holds two opened beer bottles, and he passes one off to Oswald with great aplomb. Oswald smiles at him, eyes peeking from beneath his lashes. Ed grins, oblivious.

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt so much if he just fucking noticed.

“Oh, Ozzie,” comes a familiar voice. Oswald turns slightly to face Barbara, giving her a smile as she approaches from around the bar counter, not glancing at Jim on the way over.

“Hello, Barbara. You look stunning,” Oswald says. “Is that new?”

“Yes!” she exclaims, giving a twirl. The sequins on her dress catch the colored lights, making her sparkle. She throws a delighted grin over her shoulder as she spins, and when she’s done, she clutches Oswald’s face in her hands. One of her rings digs into Oswald’s cheek uncomfortably, but he doesn’t react. “And you are just too cute! Tabbs says thank you, by the way.”

“She does?” Oswald asks dubiously.

Barbara pouts. “Well, maybe not in so many words. Now you two enjoy yourselves!” She gives Oswald a secretive grin, which Oswald scowls at in turn. She pats his face and lets him go.

Ed wraps his arm around Oswald’s shoulders and says, brightly, “Let’s check out the upstairs!”

Barbara rolls her eyes at Ed’s enthusiasm, reaching for a discarded bottle on a nearby countertop. “Have fun, babes. Once in a lifetime opportunity.”

Ed drags Oswald away.

~

They haven’t found much of anyone else willing to talk to them, but Ed seems to be having a fantastic time regardless. Oswald can’t deny he’s having a good time, too; not when he and Ed, just past the threshold of tipsy, are lounging against each other on a couch in one of the empty upstairs bedrooms. The music is quieter behind the shut door, and the room is only lit by lines of moonlight through the partially closed blinds.

Ed lies on his back on the couch, with Oswald draped on top of him. Oswald’s head is resting on Ed’s chest, ear right by his heart, the sound of the pulse of Ed’s blood a reassuring melody.

Then Ed catches his hand, running his fingers over it as if reading the lines of his palms, dry fingers whispery soft against Oswald’s skin.

Oswald lifts his head, looking up at Ed’s face. His eyes are dark, much darker than usual, but Oswald isn’t sure if that’s from the room’s darkness or from his pupils. Oswald tries to breathe in, but his breath catches in his chest.

The distant pulsing beat of the house music and the unreadable look in Ed’s eyes are so intoxicating that Oswald almost doesn’t realize what he’s doing. He’s resting against Ed as is their habit, and in the next moment, his hands are grasping Ed’s shoulders desperately as he leans up to meet Ed’s lips with his own.

It’s perfect and horrible. Ed kisses like Oswald thought he would: fierce and single minded, his hand coming around to rest on the back of Oswald’s head. Oswald slides his own hands down, grazing against the fabric of his pressed shirt, feeling the hard lines of Ed’s chest underneath.

Why hasn’t Ed stopped him? He can’t stop himself. He _won’t_.

Oswald feels Ed’s other arm come around his waist, pulling their bodies flush against each other. Oswald’s heart stutters, fear lancing through him as his hardness presses against Ed’s leg. He’s certain that Ed will push him away _now_ , will throw him off of him and the couch.

But Ed doesn’t. Ed’s hand slides down, and Oswald lets out a choked gasp as Ed’s hand comes to rest on his butt, grasping one cheek in a too-firm grip. Ed yanks his hips down, grinding Oswald’s erection into his thigh. A breathy moan escapes Oswald’s lips. He closes his eyes, blissful and overwhelmed with painful adoration.

And Ed tugs Oswald by the hips, resettling him until Oswald can feel Ed’s arousal against his own thigh.

Oswald buries his face into Ed’s shoulder, a pitiful groan escaping him. _Ed is hard, Ed is hard, Ed_ wants _me_ , he thinks, mind in a whirl. His hips jerk, pushing his own erection into Ed, and he bites down hard on his lip to prevent yet another sound from escaping him.

His leather jacket smells like cigarette smoke and cheap beer, and he desperately, desperately wants to kiss Ed, but he’s so afraid to do anything that might upset him -- he shifts his head, burying his nose into Ed’s shoulder instead, the soft fabric of his sweater still smelling of linen and lemons.

Ed’s hand tightens on his buttcheek as they rock together, tight enough that Oswald thinks his pale skin may bruise.

He wants to bite down on Ed’s shoulder, feel the muscle under his teeth, but he bites his lips again instead, tasting copper against his tongue. Traitorously, he thinks: _has he done this with her? Has he done this with his dearest Kristen?_ But no answer is forthcoming. Oswald doesn’t really want to know.

He grinds his thigh against Ed’s erection, and he hears the first noise from Ed’s lips: a hiss, the idea of a curse not yet realized. A weight lands on the back of his thigh, and Oswald realizes that it’s Ed’s other hand, guiding his movements.

Oswald’s grateful that it’s his good leg -- he can keep up with Ed’s uneven shallow thrusts. He’s almost taken aback when Ed grinds his own leg against Oswald’s erection -- a yelp escapes his lips -- in his concentration, he nearly forgot his own arousal.

Now, though, Ed thrusts up against him, sharp hipbones jolting against Oswald’s; now, they fall into a rhythm as if this is was always what they were going to do, always what they were working toward.

Then Ed shifts him over, one hand on his hip and the other still on his leg, until their erections are pressed together.

It’s through the layers of trousers and underwear, of course; but if Oswald closes his eyes and imagines, he can pretend that he feels the _soft hard hot_ skin of Ed’s erection tight against his own.

A sob escapes his lips; helpless, desperate, and Ed’s hand comes to grip the nape of his neck, pressing his face more firmly into Ed’s shoulder. Oswald gives in to instinct and bites down, as gently as he’s able, and he discovers that the fabric of Ed’s sweater even tastes clean, tastes like the lemon scented detergent implies.

And Oswald wants him, wants him, _wants_ him, all for his own. Wants to bury himself inside Ed, and vice versa; wants to mark his skin; wants to wear his fucking sweater. He wants Ed so much it feels like he’s bleeding out, spilling bright hot blood onto Ed’s chest.

He comes that way: rigid, aching, teeth clenching down on Ed far harder than is polite. Ed doesn’t seem to mind that; as Oswald comes, his hand stays in a firm grip around the back of his neck. A moment later, he convulses against Oswald, hand still on Oswald, blunt short fingernails digging into Oswald’s skin hard enough to leave indents.

Then everything is quiet. Oswald feels the cooling semen on the inside of his underwear with a sensation of premonitory doom. He releases Ed’s shoulder from his teeth, licking the dry roof of his mouth with an equally parched tongue.

Ed makes a noise, one that sounds like a cut-off version of his name, then falls silent.

Oswald waits, frozen.

In a swift move, Ed grabs Oswald’s biceps and slides out from under him, setting him back down on the couch. Oswald turns over, onto his side, and scrambles to get his legs underneath him.

“Ed, wait!” he calls after Ed’s back.

The door slams open and Ed disappears down the hallway.

Oswald hobbles after him, as quickly as he can, but is nearly knocked off his feet by another student out in the hallway. Oswald staggers back against the door. He looks up. He vaguely recognizes the other boy, but he couldn’t recall his name if his life depended on it.

“Oh fuck… did you guys just…” the student waves his hand. Oswald gathers this is supposed to indicate sex. He stands, stock still, heart beating a rapid staccato in his chest, as the boy laughs again. “That’s fucked _up_ , man. You and Nygma?” Oswald’s heart rate slows down, each beat a deafening thud in his ears.

The next few moments happen in flashes:

_\--beer bottle is in his hand again--_

_\--hand is fisted in the other boy’s collar--_

_\--face inches away--_

_\--glass shattering against the doorframe--_

_\--the broken bottle pressing against the tender skin of a neck--_

All at once, the world is still again.

His classmate isn’t laughing anymore; he’s staring at him with wild, terrified eyes. They’re dark, like Edward’s are dark, and Oswald applies pressure to the glass against his jugular, baring his teeth in a grimace.

“I could kill you,” Oswald murmurs. He digs the glass into the other’s skin, watches as a little blood beads up along the edge of the dark bottle.

“Oh fuck,” the boy murmurs. Oswald smells a distinctive acidic smell, and when he glances down, he sees that there’s a wet patch on the front of his jeans.

“Really?” Oswald mutters disgustedly to himself. He shifts his grip on the other’s collar, tugging him a little closer. “I’ll give you a choice. I can cut your neck open, right here. You’ll need to call an ambulance, and even then, you might not make it. If you do, you’ll have to explain to your parents just what you were up to tonight that got you stabbed in the throat.”

The boy is shivering, nearly convulsing under his hands. Oswald feels drunk on the sense of power, which almost manages to override the regret - _don’t think about it_.

“Or,” Oswald continues, brightly, “you could shut your foolish mouth and never speak a word of this again, and all you’ll have to deal with are your soiled trousers.”

“Yes,” he gasps, voice gurgly.

“What was that?” Oswald sing-songs, leaning his head in to mime listening.

“Please - I won’t say anything.”

“About me or Edward.”

“No.”

Oswald stares into his eyes, measuring the sincerity in their depths. The boy’s telling the truth.

But there’s something growing in Oswald’s chest, something dark and ugly and familiar. Something he knows better than himself.

He pulls the bottle away from the skin of the neck, watching the tender relief flicker in the student’s eyes --

\--and with viper-like quickness, he thrusts the bottle against his jugular, watching the blood spurt out in a sudden flood and paint his face a lurid red. Oswald bares his teeth; he can taste the blood against his lips.

He giggles helplessly to himself as he pulls the bottle back and jabs again and again, blood painting a Pollock across his face and clothes. He can feel the pitter-patter of blood drops, like rain against his face, and he heaves a heavy sigh of relief as the body finally slumps, silently, to the hardwood floor.

Oswald glances up and down the hallway. It’s empty. He fists his hand in the dead boy’s collar, other hand still firmly gripping the bloody bottle, preparing to drag him down the hallway and out the back door.

He has a call to make.

~

Oswald has a standing appointment with Fish for weekends.

He doesn’t like the work, but the pay is decent, and Fish protects her employees better than most anyone else in the business. It’s for his mother, who wouldn’t be able to bear it if he never came home one night.

So the next time Oswald has the chance to see Ed is on Monday, at school. They don’t share any classes, either; Ed’s in all Honors courses. Usually, they’ll meet up during lunch, but when Oswald arrives at their spot, on the greens behind the cafeteria, Ed isn’t there. He stands for a moment, chewing on his lip, before sitting down on the grass anyway. It’s a clumsy but practiced move. Usually he can lean on Ed’s side and shuffle down on his good leg, but today he uses the trunk of the pepper tree, scuffing his palm up in the process.

Ed doesn’t come before the bell rings.

~

Oswald doesn’t get another opportunity to see Ed until after school.

He cuts his last period and resorts to waiting by Ed’s car in the parking lot, leaning against the driver side door. His gaze is fixed on his shiny black shoes. He picks at his pant leg, and feels a twist of disappointment when he sees a grass stain on the knee - the result of his clumsiness during lunch.

He hears Ed’s approach before the final bell rings. It seems Ed has learned a thing or two from him, but not enough to predict Oswald’s movements. The sound of Ed’s footsteps halts briefly as he rounds the side of the car and spots Oswald waiting.

“What are you doing here?” Ed asks. His voice is brittle, but not surprised.

Oswald tries to lift his gaze from his feet, but finds himself unable to. “Ed,” he says helplessly. “I was afraid to tell you for so long. But I have no choice now. I have to tell you.” He takes a deep breath, jerking his head up to meet Ed’s unreadable eyes. “I love you,” Oswald confesses, voice breaking.

For a few moments, they stare at each other in silence.

“Oswald,” Ed says. His voice is flat. Oswald suppresses a shiver. “I _don’t_ love you.”

Oswald tries to tell himself it’s what he expected. Tries to tell himself it’s for the best. He sucks in a shaky breath, lungs feeling inadequate, and lets it out in a rush. “That’s - we can go back to the way it was before. Pretend it never happened.”

“But it _did_ ,” Ed says, fiercely. He takes what is supposed to be a menacing step forward. Oswald sees the fierce passion in the movement, and his heart swoops in painful adoration. “We _can’t_ go back to the way it was before, Oswald. You and I both know that.”

Oswald feels untethered for the first time since he befriended Ed. Adrift on the river without a paddle. “What--” his voice cracks “--do you want, then?” His sentence ends breathily, voice giving out.

“What I want.” Oswald watches as Ed squares his shoulders. He doesn’t know if he can take any more, but he can’t leave -- he has to know what he can do to fix this.

“What I want,” Ed repeats, voice low and cold, “the poor have, the rich need--” Oswald shuts his eyes. “--and if you eat it, you’ll die.”

The first riddle Ed ever spoke to him.

_Nothing._

“Do you mean that?” Oswald asks, voice barely audible even to himself.

“ _Yes_.”

Oswald opens his eyes to meet Ed’s. They’re dark, darker than they were _that night_. Oswald never thought they could look so black. Like a cornered animal, a desperate kind of fervor builds in him, and he opens his mouth and the words come spewing out before he can even think:

“When I met you, you were a nervous, jittery _loser_!”

Ed takes a step back, consternation on his face. He looks, for the first time that Oswald’s seen him, at a complete loss. Oswald seizes instinctively on the weakness and bites down. “You were _nothing_. You would still be nothing without my help.”

There - a catch in Ed’s expression. His brows draw together minisculely, animal hurt written in the expression.

The irony of his hurt feelings eats away at Oswald, burrowing down to his bitter, angry core. “And _I_ ,” Oswald hisses (not Kristen Kringle, not _dearest Kristen_ ), “am the _only one_ in the world who ever truly sees you as you are!” His voice rises toward the end, becoming high and reedy in the quiet of the empty parking lot. As he falls silent, the mute air seems to turn heavy around them, thick and impenetrable.

Oswald stands awkwardly, breath huffing out of him with exertion. Ed watches him, eyes still so dark.

In that instant, the final bell rings, breaking through the tense air between them. Students flood from the school buildings, their voices rising in raucous chatter.

“Goodbye, Oswald,” Ed says, voice sounding quiet and disappointed over the sound of students’ laughter. He walks away from Oswald, away from the car, away from the school grounds. Oswald doesn't know where he's going, and he doesn't think Ed does either.

~

How could he have ever thought -- how could he have ever hoped..?

When Oswald arrives home, his mother is asleep in the living room armchair. A small noise escapes him, a little like a whine, and he selfishly thinks about waking her up.

But she’s been very tired recently, with her work, so instead he cumbersomely fetches a throw blanket from the sofa and carefully lays it over her. It’s an old blanket, one that's older than him, and the colors are faded, like all of the linen in the house.

Oswald looks around, trying to see with fresh eyes: the old picture frames full of black and white pictures; the ornate glass vases and dishes that cover the surfaces; the dust, gathered as thick as a blanket, on all of the cabinets; the kitchen, empty but for a few odds and ends. It seems like a decrepit haunted house, but without any of the splendor.

Bitterly, Oswald pictures Kristen Kringle, and the kind of nice, orderly three-bedroom house she no doubt lives in.

But the reason he loves Ed is because he always saw past all of that. He knows that orderly houses can hide horrors and meager homes can contain love. He always accepted Oswald as he was, no judgment, no question.

A sob escapes him. He bites down on his hand, trying to suppress the tears, but they come anyway, flooding over and streaking down his face. He throws a wild glance to his mother, but she’s still asleep.

He hobbles as quickly as he can to the bedroom and shuts the door.

~

There’s a knock on the front door eight hours later.

Oswald sits up in bed and throws a wild glance to the clock, which reads 1:30 AM in glowing green. He sits still, doubting his ears.

The knock comes again.

He opens the door to the bedroom and rushes out, stopping in the bathroom to quickly scrub his face clean of the tear tracks. He’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday, rumpled and creased, but there’s nothing he can do about that. He tries to arrange his hair into something that looks intentional, but when the knock comes a third time he gives up, hurrying to the door. He opens it.

And freezes.

“I need your help, Oswald.”

Ed looks like a mess. His hair is curled and frizzy with sweat. His glasses are misaligned, and there’s a streak of something across one of the lenses that must be impairing his vision. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring blankly at Oswald, eyes wide and pupils blown.

Oswald glances over his shoulder. His mother is still asleep in her armchair. He opens the door slightly, and steps aside. Ed takes two rapid steps to bring him inside, hands clenched in fists awkwardly, and Oswald shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can.

“Os--” Oswald holds up a hand to cut him off. He gestures toward the bedroom, and Ed obediently leads the way.

The rain has stained his dark coat even blacker; strands of his hair are slicked over his forehead and the short hairs at the back of his head are curling. He looks like a kind boy, a sweet boy, and Oswald almost wants to laugh. Oswald knows Ed better than that; his innocent face hides a quiet malice that he’s afraid to show to the rest of the world.

Then again, if he wasn’t so vicious, Oswald’s affections for him probably wouldn’t even exist.

After all, Oswald had started feeling for him after their night journey into the dark woods. The one where they’d buried Tom Dougherty. He’d seen the ecstatic pleasure on Ed’s face, nearly sexual in nature, as he’d described the murder to Oswald. As the night had worn on, he’d whispered in Oswald’s ear about the feeling of the blood staining his hands and sleeves, the knowledge that any of Tom’s gasped breaths might be his last.

And Oswald’s heart had twinged painfully in his chest as Ed’s hot breath had hit his neck. He’d held Ed’s hand, just briefly, nothing more than friendly; but in that moment he’d felt the intoxicating strength of his grip.

“What is it, Ed?” Oswald asks after he’s shut the bedroom door behind them. He wants to be curt, angry, but his voice is distressingly eager. The truth is: whatever Ed needs, he’ll do it.

Ed stands in the middle of his room, looking over the familiar furniture almost as if he’s never seen it before. He seems aberrant, the clean modern lines of his coat and rain slicked hair cutting sharp edges into the room filled with old, careworn belongings. A twinge of unease surfaces in Oswald’s gut, Ed’s bizarre mood beginning to make him truly nervous. “Ed?” he asks again. Ed makes a half-turn toward him. The moonlight from the window catches on his glasses.

“Oswald,” Ed says, voice lost. Oswald holds his breath. He’s never seen Ed act anything like this; not even when Kristen had snubbed him repeatedly, not even when he would come over late at night, face shuttered and refusing to answer Oswald’s questions about what had happened. Oswald knew enough to understand that not all was well in the Nygma home, but Ed never elaborated, and Oswald was never sure how to ask him.

But even those nights, he’d simply talk with Oswald like normal, and they’d stay up late together until dawn began to touch the horizon. He was never like this: silent and dazed, standing as if not aware of his own body.

“I killed her.”

For a moment, the words don’t make any sense. Oswald stares at Ed, blankly. The words echo in his head: _he killed her. He_ killed _her? Her?_

“Who?” Oswald asks, hardly daring to hope.

“You were--” Ed grits his teeth. There’s a flicker of a familiar expression: irritation. “-- _right_. I tried to tell her -- she didn’t understand--”

“Kristen,” Oswald says, astonished.

Ed paces to Oswald’s desk, leaning one hand heavy against the surface. His head is tilted downward, clipped words directed to the desk’s scuffed surface. “--the way she _looked_ at me, Oswald--”

“Kristen _Kringle_ ,” Oswald repeats, gaze attempting to pierce Ed. He shuffles closer to him, trying to read his expression.

Ed’s head jerks up to meet Oswald’s eyes. “--she called me a freak!”

“Kr--” Oswald breaks off. “Oh, Ed. She didn’t.”

He sees now that the smudge on Ed’s glasses is a distinctly familiar red.

Ed stares at him, falling silent. Oswald reaches out and plucks Ed’s glasses delicately from his nose. Ed blinks myopically, eyes tracking across Oswald’s face.

Oswald licks his thumb, wiping it across the glasses lens to wet the tacky blood. Then he brings it down to the hem of his shirt, rubbing it until the patch of his shirt is dyed light pink and the glasses are clear. He brings it up to the light, examining his work, and grimaces when he sees streaks on the glass. He never was able to master that particular skill.

“It was an accident,” Ed mumbles.

“I know, Ed,” Oswald soothes. He reaches out to slide Ed’s glasses back onto his face. Oswald’s fingers graze Ed’s skin, and he’s alarmed when he realizes just how chilled he is from night air, clammy and damp from rain. Tentatively, not looking up into Ed’s eyes for fear of his expression, Oswald slides his hands across the skin of his cheeks. “Ed, you’re freezing!”

“I don’t know what to do, Oswald.”

“You’re in shock, Ed. You need to sit down.” Oswald guides Ed over to the bed, still messy from his hasty exit earlier, and sets him down on the mattress. Ed looks up at him, seeming almost innocently compliant, as Oswald looks around for a blanket.

“Should I turn myself in?” Ed asks him, voice haunted.

Oswald halts mid-motion, nearly unbalancing himself enough to fall. His heavy-tread boots catch against the wood flooring and save him. He turns back toward Ed-- “Absolutely not!” he snarls, harsher than he ever is with Ed. “You are _not_ turning yourself in because of _her_.”

“Then what do I do?” It’s spoken with no inflection.

“I think it’s obvious,” Oswald says, a bit condescendingly. Normally, that would irritate Ed, but he’s so out of it currently that all he does is give Oswald a despondent look.

“Where’s the body?” Oswald asks, perhaps a bit too eagerly. He retrieves a knitted lavender blanket from his desk chair and carries it back to Ed.

“It’s -- we were in the car.”

“Did you cover it?” Oswald asks, urgently. He drapes the blanket over Ed’s shoulders. When Ed doesn’t look at him, he brings his hands up to Ed’s chin, tilting his face up toward Oswald.

Ed blinks. “Yes, of course, Oswald. I used the picnic blanket in the back. She -- it’s in the trunk.”

“Good,” Oswald says, relief saturating him. Mindlessly, he strokes his fingers along Ed’s jawline, gratified when Ed doesn’t reject the touch. “Do you still remember the back route out to the woods?”

“Yes,” Ed says, gaze focused incongruously on Oswald’s lips. Oswald waits, watching Ed’s dark eyes, hoping beyond hope to see something there.

All he sees are the hollow lines of shock.

“Let me go get the shovel,” Oswald says, resigned.

~

Kristen Kringle is laid to rest next to her ex-boyfriend, Tom Dougherty.

Perhaps it’s not wise to bury the bodies together, but if six months passed without anyone finding Dougherty’s grave, chances are they won’t find Kringle’s either. They’ll have to work on Ed’s presentation, make sure he’s playing the part of a distraught boyfriend well enough. Luckily, Oswald thinks bitterly, glancing over at Ed’s bowed shoulders, it shouldn't be too hard for him to pull off.

Oswald, meanwhile, has never seen a corpse he liked so much.

Kristen’s rounded cheeks and pointed chin, which he jealously detested in life, are charming in death: sweet, peaceful, and nonthreatening. Her eyes no longer sparkle with innocent, coquettish virtue. In fact, Oswald muses, he remembers her having her own brand of admirable callousness before Dougherty's timely end. If only it hadn't been directed at himself and Ed, he might have appreciated it.

“I'm ready now,” Ed says softly, breaking through Oswald's musings. Oswald chances a glance at his face. He looks far less distraught than earlier; his brow is a straight firm line, lips downturned thoughtfully, in an expression of quiet determination. His eyes flicker down to Oswald’s hands, which are wrapped around the shovel.

“Are you certain?” Oswald asks.

“What’s that?” Ed interrupts, voice perturbed.

Oswald looks down. “The shovel?”

Ed captures his right wrist and pulls it away from the shovel gently. Oswald allows him to, feeling a fluttering in his chest at the gentle touch.

Ed’s brow furrows as he turns Oswald’s hand over, eyes catching on the scrape from earlier. Oswald flushes, self-conscious of the reminder of their earlier tension. With delicate movement, Ed’s fingers graze the scrape, feeling Oswald’s rough, calloused skin, and Oswald shudders as he fights back a sense of deja vu. This won’t end the same way as it did earlier.

Oswald’s lucky; he’s being given a chance to become Ed’s friend again. He can’t bear to hope for anything more.

“Does it hurt?” Ed asks, voice pensive.

“No - not really,” Oswald says. It’s true; he’s had much worse wounds before. This is irritating, at best. “Shall we … go, now?” he asks, gently pulling his hand back from Ed’s grasp.

Ed releases him and, after a pause, nods jerkily. Together they begin the hike back to the car.

~

The drive back is quiet. Oswald leans his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger side window, watching the dark woods streak by. As they pass by gaps in the forest, the faintest glimmer of gold shines through, signaling the arrival of dawn. About 4:45 this time of year, Oswald notes. A glance at the car clock proves him correct.

They’ve encountered no cars all night. Oswald only hopes that Ed’s car’s tracks will be covered before long, in case there are any suspicions. Maybe he can trade a favor with one of Fish’s people.

“I missed you,” Ed says, whisper fading into the quiet dark around them.

Oswald’s eyes slide over to Ed, not moving his head. Ed’s eyes are luminous with reflected light.

It doesn’t make any sense. They’ve been apart before, for much longer than they have over the course of the past few days. It hasn’t been long at all since they last spoke to each other, even if the words were cruel.

Oswald thinks he knows what Ed means anyway.

“I missed you, too,” Oswald murmurs.

~

Once they're back in Oswald's bedroom, Oswald once again directs Ed to sit on the bed before nearly collapsing in his desk chair. Oswald drags a hand through his hair, crusty now from the gel he'd neglected to wash out. He grimaces at the feel, resolving to shower as soon as possible.

In fact, he thinks, eyeing Ed, they could both do with a shower. Ed’s posture is not nearly as perfect as usual, his shoulders slumped slightly and his back bowed. His hair has dried curly in an uncharacteristically haphazard pile on top of his head. His fingers are stained with dirt, and no doubt his nails are a mess of grime.

But first things first.

“Did anyone know she was out with you tonight?” Oswald begins without aplomb.

“No - she snuck out,” Ed says, voice clear. All of the symptoms of shock have seemed to fade as the night passed on, and Oswald is impressed and pleased by it.

“Did your parents see you come home tonight?”

Ed shakes his head. “No, they were both out.”

That makes things easier. “Okay, then our alibi is that you spent the night here. My mother will corroborate us if I ask her to. You haven’t seen Kristen since you were at school today.”

“When did she leave for work?” Ed asks. He drops his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair. They snag on the curls as Oswald watches.

“Around four-thirty. She was asleep when I got home but she won't mind lying about that. Hopefully, that should cover the whole time of disappearance window.

“But for now, we both need to shower and make ourselves presentable for school. We can’t afford to be late,” Oswald says. “Would you like the first shower?”

Ed lifts his head from his hands and stares at him. Oswald waits, but Ed doesn’t say anything. Nervously, Oswald glances down at himself. He’s messy and dirty, but he doesn’t see anything that should’ve caught Ed’s attention.

“That's it?” Ed asks, voice surprisingly gruff. Oswald’s head jerks up to meet his eyes.

“...Is there anything else?” Oswald asks tentatively.

Ed watches him for a few moments longer. Then, suddenly too loudly, he says: “No. You take the first shower, Oswald.”

Oswald's lip twitches nervously, but Ed plucks his glasses off his face and busies himself wiping them over and over again with the dirty hem of his sweater.

Silently, Oswald pulls himself up out of his chair and limps to the shower.

~

The door to the bathroom opens as Oswald is rinsing the conditioner from his hair.

His heart skips a beat, but he manages to keep his voice steady as he calls out: “Am I taking too long?” The stream of water causes his hair to fall across his eyes, obscuring his vision. He pushes it out of the way impatiently, listening intently for the sound of voices or movement.

He doesn’t hear anything over the shower. Oswald’s eyes dart around the shower stall for a weapon. The only thing that avails itself is the shower head: not ideal, but he lunges forward to grab it just as the shower door opens.

It’s Ed.

Oswald slowly puts the shower head back in its cradle, resisting the urge to cover himself. Ed’s naked too, anyway, and his eyes are on his face with that same vaguely determined look from earlier. Heart in his throat, Oswald says, “Ed?”

Ed sucks in a breath, suddenly, like a gasp, and steps into the shower.

Oswald bites back whatever he was going to say, staring up at Ed in astonishment. Ed stares back at him, takes a step forward.

And Ed’s hand comes around to cup the base of Oswald’s skull, tilting his face up so his lips fit against Ed’s. Oswald whimpers immediately, feeling himself sway on unsteady feet. Ed’s other arm slides around his waist, holding him up. Ed’s lips part, and Oswald’s tongue presses for entrance, tasting the stinging flavor of a strong mint -- when had Ed eaten a mint? -- on Ed’s tongue.

Ed’s fingers tighten on the nape of his neck, and Oswald lifts his hands to rest on Ed’s shoulders, gripping back just as tightly. Tentatively, he explores Ed’s mouth with his tongue, savoring the slick warmth with a moan he can’t stifle. Ed’s tongue slides against his own, and his fingers dig into Ed’s shoulders reflexively, fingernails leaving what must be painful divots in the skin. Ed shivers against the assault, breath leaving his nose in a quivering exhale. Oswald smiles, agonized, against his lips, before pulling away with a delicate sigh.

What does Ed _want_? Will Oswald ever know?

Oswald feels Ed crowding against him, guiding him back to the shower wall. As Oswald tries to move with him, he slips on the wet floor; but the arm around his waist catches him until he gets his feet back underneath him. There’s only a few more steps and then his back thumps against the solid wall, impact reverberating in his chest. Ed pulls flush against him, stooping slightly to bring their heights closer. Oswald’s cheek is pressed against Ed’s collarbone, and when he glances up to Ed’s face a little breathy moan escapes him. Ed’s staring down at him with hungry eyes.

One of Ed’s hands comes to rest along Oswald’s jaw. Ed’s lips descend on his again, intent, this time; devouring. Oswald parts his lips to allow Ed’s tongue inside, and when he does Ed groans, his chest resonating against Oswald’s.

Then Ed’s hand wraps around his erection.

The sound that escapes Oswald is both high-pitched and breathy; his eyes shut reflexively as his head tilts back from Ed to lean against the shower wall. His mouth is open in an O, fingers gripping tightly onto Ed’s shoulders. Ed gives him a tentative stroke, seeming unsure, but when Oswald shakes against him, he tightens his grip slightly and _tugs_.

Oswald moans, the sound ripped from his chest. He tries to blink his eyes open but the waves of pleasure from Ed’s ardent pulls on his arousal are too intense. _Ed followed him in here, Ed pursued him, Ed_ wants _him even if he doesn’t love him, Ed_ _needs him_ , Oswald tells himself like a mantra.

And it’s Ed’s scent in the heat of the shower, Ed’s warm body pressed against his, Ed’s long fingers wrapped around his erection, circling the head and caressing the slit -- it’s all _Ed_ \--

Oswald shouts Ed’s name as he comes, collapsing back against the shower wall as the arousal overwhelms him. He feels emptied, wrung out, both physically and emotionally.

He feels the weight of Ed’s head descending down onto his shoulder faintly, as if through a fog.

“Oswald,” Ed murmurs, his lips moving against Oswald’s skin.

Oswald reaches out, near fumbling, with his own hand. He wraps it around Ed’s arousal, feeling the hot, heavy shaft filling his hand, and begins to tug. Ed groans, softly, into Oswald’s skin, and Oswald feels a bittersweet smile form on his face. He wonders if this is the only time he’ll be able to feel this, and tries to commit it to memory: the smell of Ed, earthy from the gravesite; the feel of his hot and thick erection in his hand; the sound of his labored breaths puffing against Oswald’s shoulder. Oswald drags his thumb gently along Ed’s slit on the next pull, and feels Ed come, taut and shaking, against him.

For a little while, everything is still and quiet except the running showerhead. Oswald gently releases Ed’s softening erection, holding his hand out under the spray of the shower and watching the remnants of Ed’s arousal drip to the floor and wash down the drain. Ed doesn’t move, face still resting against Oswald’s shoulder, bent nearly in half to accomplish this.

Oswald waits until he can no longer bear it. “Ed … what was that?”

Ed stiffens awkwardly against him. Still, he doesn’t move. “What do you mean, Oswald?” he asks finally, voice reluctant.

“What did that mean? Why did you do that?”

Ed finally lifts his head from Oswald’s shoulder, face turned away. Oswald cranes his head to try and catch Ed’s expression, but Ed evades him. “Didn’t you like it?” he asks, voice flat.

“Ed! That’s beside the point!” Oswald sighs sharply, dragging a hand over his face. He pulls it away and looks at it dubiously when he remembers it’s the one he used to -- to masturbate Ed. He fights off a blush. “I told you how I felt, and you made it pretty clear you didn’t feel the same! Now what does _this_ mean?”

Ed turns his back and takes a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling. He spins abruptly on his heel to face Oswald again. He holds up a hand, though Oswald didn’t try to interrupt, and begins, quickly, “Oswald… I wanted to be ordinary. I wanted to be the kind of man who could date Kristen Kringle and live a normal life.” He sighs sharply. “But I’m not. You and I, Oswald, we’re the same… we’ll never be able to just be,” Ed scowls, bitterly, “ _normal_.”

Ed creases his brow, and his tone is noticeably softer as he says: “And I do -- do love you. I always have, Oswald, of _course_. I just didn’t know -- know how to give it up. The fantasy of a normal life.”

Ed stands in the middle of the shower. His head is tilted away from Oswald’s again, awkwardly refusing eye contact. Oswald’s eyes are wet, and he tilts his head up to avoid sniffling, determined to be strong in this moment.

“Thank you, Ed.” Ed’s head jerks up, eyes meeting Oswald’s. “For being honest,” Oswald explains.

They stare at each other in protracted silence. Oswald can hardly see Ed for the mistiness in his eyes.

“Does that,” Ed takes a deep breath, “mean no?”

“No what?” Oswald asks, bemused.

“No, to me,” Ed clarifies, pointing to himself.

“Oh, no, no!” Oswald gasps desperately. “No, of course, Ed! I still love you!”

“Oh, good,” Ed says, voice markedly more cheerful. He takes a couple of steps toward Oswald.

“Of course, we’ll have to wait a while,” Oswald says. “To make it public,” he appends at Ed’s curious look.

“Why?” Ed asks, eyes narrowing.

“You can’t start dating me _right_ after your girlfriend has mysteriously disappeared, Ed,” Oswald says in a too-patient tone. “Really, you tend to overlook the _obvious_.”

Ed scowls at him. “And you’re a sadist,” Ed says, but the words don’t hold bite. He closes the distance between them, leaning in to place a chaste kiss on Oswald’s lips.

“On the subject of public appearances, we need to finish cleaning up and go to school,” Oswald says.

Ed sighs, exasperated, as he tucks his head against Oswald’s ear.

Oswald continues, “Unless you _want_ to get arrested for murder. And I don’t think they allow conjugal visits for minors.”


End file.
